The wrong people in the spotlight ... again

I feel a little sorry for the teacher who wrote the letter to his year 6 pupils just before SATs; he has taken something of a bashing after it went viral.  I have to say that my first thoughts were “Good on you colleague” and “Why didn’t I think of that?”.

I have to say that I have no problem with what he said for two reasons: firstly, I too have said exactly those things to year 6 children on the numerous occasions in the 18 years I have now had the misfortune of being involved in some way with SATs.  I recall teaching a whole year 6 cohort a move called the “chill”, where they slid down in their chairs and placed their hands behind their heads having completed the final question.  It worked a treat.

Secondly, and more importantly, this teacher reminded us all that the focus of SATs should solely be on the children who have to take them, not on the adults. Our focus for that week should be on ensuring that these amazing children are ready, comfortable and confident to do nothing but their best, and to get to the end of the week with a feeling of “I did it!”.   But, what has actually happened during and since the tests?  Have the children taken centre stage, or have the adults once again barged, with sharpened elbows, into the spotlight?

Once again, the media glare fell not on the children, but on the teeth-gnashing adults whose expectations had been dashed. Monday evening’s press bulletins were awash with teachers and heads (we really do not do ourselves any favours as a profession sometimes) bemoaning how tough the reading paper was, and how children had not completed it.

Forgive me if I’ve missed something here, but weren’t we told about two years ago that the 2016 tests would be far more difficult? All of these teachers and heads who appeared on the news appear to have missed that, or were not prepared for the fact.  Although many of you may cry foul play, not a single member of our profession can cry that we were not warned.

I did not see it myself – and I am glad that I did not – but apparently images of children in tears were displayed, distraught over their experience of the reading paper.  Now who should feel the more guilty for that: the press for showing it, or the schools for allowing it?

Allow me to share with you a different image of the news: my children said things like:

“Yeah, it was tough, but I think I did well.”

“I didn’t get to the end, but I don’t mind.”

“Was there a bit about do-dos?”

My own son, who is also in year 6, told me that evening that he had “finished with about 30 seconds to go, but it was fine.”.  Top man, have an extra yogurt (that was genuinely his choice).

If the children were not adequately prepared or emotionally ready for these tests, where does fault truly lie?

But that is not my main point here.  My main point is but a simple one, and one that I will, I sadly fear, have to return to repeatedly whenever this subject raises its head: since when did SATs become about the adults? 

In fact, the whole examination gauntlet now seems to be adult dominated, from those who keep their children away from key stage 1 tests (are you having a laugh?!?) right up to the old peers and queens they wheel out at the end of every August to tell teenagers delighted over their exam results that “it was far tougher in my day”.  I feel for those teenagers every single year.

Let us all, please, take a moment in all of this to do our real job: not bemoaning the state and biting our collective nails that we might have missed out on the raw score required (and trust me, I say this has one who has spent the year looking up from the most hideous bottom of the most awful barrel labelled “BAD results”) but celebrating the work and effort of these remarkable children who are repeatedly caught up in this adult web of standards and one-upmanship, and still do themselves proud.

One final thing, to all the children who will never read this.  There’s one thing adults often forget to mention at this point in the proceedings, which is this: tests are supposed to be difficult.  If they were not, then they would not be doing their job, and they would be called doddles, not tests.  At the end of them, you should feel exhausted, you should feel like you might have got one wrong, but you should feel an enormous sense of something extremely well done.  And that’s the key to it all – well done.

Once the final subordinating clause has been underlined, and the final line drawn between two mathematical terms you will almost never need to know or use in the real virtual world you are going to build, that really is all.

PS Well done kids, I thought you were superb.

Just when you thought it was safe ...

To my amazing colleagues,

I thought I would write to you before term starts so that we can all hit the ground running on Monday.  I in no way wish to ruin the end of what I hope has been a wonderful holiday for you – far from it, I’m hoping to put a little smile on your face as we all meet again in the car park far too early on Monday morning.

As spring starts to bloom into fully grown summertime, I am reminded of some words from my first headteacher.  It was at this time of the year he’d give us one of his favourite speeches:

“Do you know the best three places in the world?  One – a primary school at Christmas; two, a primary school in Summer; three, North Wales.”

Although I could never agree with number three, one and two always hit the mark, and I agree to this day.

I know that at least one person on Monday will say “It’s only 7 weeks!”, by which they mean 7 weeks until half term.  But I’d invite you to look at it another way: we have just 7 weeks to achieve everything we want to achieve before we head into the joy that is term 6, and everything that holds.  

What I’m trying to say is, if we put the hard yards in during these 7 weeks, if we really harness the spring sun’s energy and not wish it away, then we will be able to start applying the polish to what has been / promises to be a great year.

Our school looks stunning, thanks to you all.  Our data (trust me, I have spent a few days during this break crunching it) is very strong, and all our in-house indicators already point to gains and improvements made, directly as a result of your amazing work. 

Most importantly, I want you all to put the gloom of an impending visit far from your thoughts.  Let’s not prepare ourselves just for that: let’s plough our not inconsiderable energies into being prepared for us, for our children, and for delivering our own impeccably high standards.  I think you’ll find that that, in turn, will have a far greater impact on your energy levels.

Finally, let’s all be proud - positive overdrive, as I often say at this point in the year. When you see a colleague doing something well, or something you really like, tell them.  Let’s not be shy to share and promote the truly great things that happen in our school on a daily basis.  I have been privileged to have seen another school close at hand during this holiday, and my abiding, overwhelming thought was how lucky I am to have the colleagues that I do, and the hard work that they bring, and the energy they generate … and the cakes some of them make.

Colleagues, have a superb end to your break.  I hope you feel fully refreshed and relaxed and are chomping at the bit to get back to what it is we do so well.  Will 7 weeks actually be enough?

Yours

W

PS To our wonderful children, I am very much looking forward to seeing you all again this term.  Your work this year has never been anything less than stunning, and your uniform has been amazing.  We do need to sort out attendance, but, I know how poorly some of you have been.  We’ll see you all Monday – your teachers have already shown me some of the things they are planning, which look extremely cool, and I will be joined for my assemblies by a friend who is, let’s just say, 8 feet tall and green.  Laters

Always keep this in mind ...

Term 3, which is disappearing quicker than cake in a staff room, has been almost ludicrously short.  We have barely changed the displays and finished our first topics before we are talking about "and next term..."

Of course, some outsiders might think that this makes life easier.  Some commentators might say "Well, you teachers haven't had a holiday for ten minutes...".  We insiders, however, we in-the-know are all too aware of the pitfalls of a short term.

In any term, regardless of the number of actual days, teachers and leaders generally give themselves about ten weeks' worth of work.  We then try and crowbar other things into this which will prohibit us from achieving things on the list, and then get to the final week and think about making a start on what we set out to achieve at the beginning.

This term at Badock's, we have, as is our norm, done just that.  We started the term with a thundering inset, filled morning number one with more meetings than we could possibly host or attend, and have carried on in a similar fashion ever since.  Yet here we stand, on the precipice of the term, and we are all exhausted and deflated, and not a little blue.

Without wishing to sound glum, it is true to say we have had a bit of a term.  Yes, all of the above is true, and we have attempted to fit in far too much.  However, as if this weren't enough, we have also had to face a number of adversities that would take the stuffing entire out of lesser mortals.

We have had more than our fair share of illness, especially in the teeth of the cold weather we have been having.  Staff who should not have even been near members of their own family have dragged themselves in to work, only for us to send them away.  Our governors, despite their own ailments, have continued to support the school with gusto.

Added to this, we have suffered an almost unprecedented number of bereavements, and I do not mean simply his holiness David Bowie (although this, of course, took its toll).  Sadly, many members of staff have been affected by sad news of near and dear.  I had to dig my own black suit out recently to attend a funeral, and I have returned home this very evening to hear news of the passing of a former headteacher colleague (who was, I am scared to recall, younger than me).  To each of my amazing colleagues who has been affected, you know all of our thoughts are with you, always.

It would be easy for us to curl up and hide in a dark corner at such points, and extremely tempting.  But I feel we have too much good going on to go into despair, there are too many things to celebrate for us to simply give up.

On Monday morning just gone, I arrived at school with a phone and an inbox full of "Sorry but I won't be in"s, and found even more on my arrival.  The words "You need to go home" have never been so relevant.  Half way through the morning, it was clear that our resources weren't stretching that far, nor were our children coping.  It was a shame.

However, less than two days later, our new friends from Elmfield school came for lunch, and suddenly, as if by magic, the sun shone.  Our playground was aflame with friendships being made and new possibilities opening up.  What had two days previously been a place of discomfort (and please recall the 70-mph winds on Monday!) became a place of humility, sharing and joy.

As I watched, I realized that I had never before seen hide-and-seek played by two children in a wheelchair, one of whom was also hearing impaired, with two other HI friends and three new-found Badock's buddies, and that my life had been the poorer for it.  As our friends from Elmfield prepared to leave, the line of children waiting to say goodbye was longer than the chip queue on a Friday, and I felt privileged and humbled to be a spectator.

Every school has its grotty Monday mornings, and they are usually the culmination of a set of circumstances almost impossible to manufacture or replicate.  However, always keep this in mind: for every such Monday, there will be an even sunnier Wednesday, an even brighter Thursday.  Is a rubbish Monday - ten such days - not worth the sight of true friendship and learning in children being sparked?  Inevitably, when we are at our lowest, the very success which motivated us to sign up for this crazy ride is just around the corner.  Always, always keep this in mind.

That, my friends, is all.

Times and places of magic and wonder - the 5th Christmas blessay

As many of you more frequent fliers of my blessays will acknowledge, it normally takes me a little time to warm up and get to my subject matter.  No such prevarication this year: there is only one subject, and it lies just across the channel.

A few Saturdays ago, my wife came into the kitchen as she was about to go out for the day looking horror-struck: who’s called? I thought.  What news has she received?  I knew that this particular look augured only bad news.  Finally, she said it – “There have been loads of shootings … in Paris.”

You all know me well enough by now to know that news of this sort, in any format, always troubles me.  As a confirmed and dedicated pacifist, by which I mean against all acts of anger and aggression, regardless of their motivation, the news of any death toll – regardless of the number – always makes me recoil with horror.

But this news was that little bit more important.  For my wife and I, this news meant more.  It was one of those moments in a relationship where words were not enough, but a hug and a few quiet moments were required.  For Paris, for reasons I shall now share, had recently become very close to our hearts. 

In February of this year, my wife and I celebrated / commiserated over twenty years together with a trip to – you’ve guessed it – Paris.  Having wanted to go for several years, she finally managed to overcome my natural reluctance to anything out of the ordinary, and to my inbuilt British sentiment about our Gallic cousins.  In the run up to our trip, people gave us mixed reviews, from the tepid to the downright frosty, and the general consensus was that if the waiters looked like they wanted to kill you, it was most likely because they did.

So, on Valentine’s itself, we boarded Eurostar with a picnic and a vague idea of how to get to our place to stay.   We discovered, in a very short space of time, that the reviews and the doubting Tomas’ were wrong.  We discovered, quickly, pleasantly and easily, that there is one simple truth about Paris.

It is wonderful.

All this, recall, in the wake of the Charlie Ebdo event in late January, which shook the city and brought it to international attention.  The shooting of a journalist, and this attack on the free press in a country famously and rightly proud for its freedom of speech, had been reported on the news with almost ghoulish intrigue. Despite this, the mood in the city was upbeat, friendly, enjoyable, and we didn’t encounter a single person who wasn’t pleasant, generous and welcoming.  There was no backlash of hate – a friendly city simply became … even more friendly. 

So now you can start to see why the news of a few weeks ago was so upsetting, and had such personal resonance for my wife and I.  It was as if someone were attacking our personal memories.  It got even more personal when we discovered that the attacks had taken place at a music venue and at various restaurants – pretty much how we had spent all of our time there.

Furthermore, I have been watching in awe how the people of Paris have continued to display awe-inspiring dignity and imagination in their recovery.  Have you seen the wonderful news about the silent protest?  As they still languish in a state of emergency, large gatherings and protests are outlawed, and, in order to show how much they still care, thousands of Parisians placed a pair of their shoes in the Place de la Republique – a way of registering their protests surrounding climate change at a time when protesting is banned.

That, of course, may be part of the problem.  When you visit somewhere for such personal and, let us not deny it, romantic reasons, you will invariably only ever view it through rose-tinted specs.  A Sunday spent by the Seine will most probably only ever be looked upon through the hazy glow of warm nostalgia. 

And I think this is the key to this time of year.  It is connected to a thousand thoughts and feelings and emotions, wrapped up in triggers such as food, music, people and places, smells, sights and sounds, and irrevocably linked with warmth and happiness (or, for some, for the reverse). 

For me, as a child, there were certain key signals and signs that Christmas was due to arrive – the furniture would be moved to accommodate the tree, and our house would be full of food stuffs it never saw at any other time of the year such as dates and nuts.  Certain decorations that belonged solely in a Birmingham flat in the early 1980s still live with me – a Rudolph and his reindeer frieze used to adorn the entire wall above the fire, and a pop-up Santa in his car was filled with confectionery.  As the years passed, and I turned from blonde haired child to floppy haired teenager, this time of year was always accompanied by that mixture of too-cool embarrassment and warm pride that decorations I had made as a child were still part of my Mum’s Christmas collection. 

I always loved – and still enjoy even now – those weekends in the lead up to Christmas when you see, little by little, our dark world transformed from drab and humdrum to bright and welcoming, filled with lights and warmth.  It is a real signal to my children that December is about to start when the people at the end of our road decorate the tree in their front garden which – for the other 11 months of the year, is an eyesore, ugly thing, but for the twelfth month is adorned with beautiful lights, and is a real thing of beauty.

As our family grows older, so too does it embed further and further the little rituals which make our Christmas … ours.  The calendar which comes out every year, the candles, the box of decs for the outdoor tree, and those decorations and baubles which are becoming old friends.  When the winter Chris Cringle comes out of the tree box, we know good times are arriving.  My wife commented this weekend that we needed a new bag for some of our stuff, so old and falling to pieces is the current one.  I bluntly refused: “We’ve had that bag longer than we’ve had Thea!” I protested.  The bag has stayed.  For now. 

Tell me, how did your first mince pie taste / feel / smell?  And at what other time of the year would you say to yourself “I think I’ll have a plate of stodge now please”?  I’m no great fan of turkey, but you can guarantee that I will still be picking and gnawing away with greed come the 28^th or 29^th.  

Our special times, and special places, are so intrinsically linked with our memories that their emotional value is priceless.   I still cannot feel anything but warm when I hear the opening bars of certain songs, and having two warm mince pies with cream for dessert on a Tuesday evening is only ever permissible at this time of year.

Schools carry their emotive and emotional indicators as well.  A wooden toy cot lies, usually on the very top shelf of that groaningly full cupboard for most of the year, and filled with all sorts of junk, before it becomes the centre piece of the infant nativity in mid-December.  I cannot recall a year in my working history when my first Christmas card has not been presented to me, unexpectedly, from a child in the playground.  The school starts to rock to different tunes, and there is a corner of each classroom filled with props and items that were not there at the end of December.  You can recognise gifts of frankincense and myrrh from a Judean mile away, even if, beneath that fancy packaging, they are really just empty biscuit boxes from a disco of yesteryear.

Of course, it is at this time of year that schools also hum to another tune – ill adults trying to keep their snuffles tissue-bound throughout productions, whilst a child invariably shouts out something inappropriate but hysterically funny half way through the donkey’s one and only big moment.  The jingle of sleigh bells is almost imperceptibly accompanied by the near silent rattle of paracetamol in staff handbags.   Yet do you want to know something strange? Staff are rarely absent at this time of year…

When the lists go up outside classrooms, asking for foodie donations, I am almost instantly whisked back to Warren Farm J&I school and the childhood I loved, the manic and almost obsessive anticipation with which we looked forward to our Christmas parties in school.  When I see a child dragging their bookbag in one morning, whilst over their shoulder they carry their party clothes with reverential care, I know that the party season is in full swing.  And, quite simply, why not?

You see, even the worst Christmases, the ones when you had that row, or burnt the cake, or got completely the wrong present (I recall being the fortunate benefactor of an Ultravox misunderstanding as a child) are generally blotted out by the sentimentality of the good.  Although they might’ve stung at the time, you can gaze down the portal of hindsight and almost laugh at the slightly awkward memory, so strong and powerful is this time and place of wonder and magic.

I am, however, not too niave to acknowledge that this is not the case for everyone.  I am fully aware that there are people for whom this is not a time of wonder or a place of magic, but a time of hurt and sadness, and a place of grief and loss.

I am all too keenly aware that there are many who at this time will be living not in a place of wonder and magic, but in a place torn apart by war and conflict.  There can be little magic, and precious little wonder in such places, other than wonder at how, once again and despite the multiple lessons of the past, man still seeks to excel in the field of hurting others.

Furthermore, consider a moment all those place where Christmas does not thrive, or, indeed, is shunned or even outlawed.  It would be difficult to appreciate the full majesty of tinsel and paper crowns in places where such things are banned.  Think about the places where Christianity and its most important messages are not only unpopular, but where they are scorned and derided.  It is difficult yet sad and extremely important to acknowledge that there are places on this planet where the story of the virgin birth, and all its inherent beauty and wisdom, are mocked as heretic.  Little magic here, sadly.

Places where danger lies hidden, or silent, or ever lurking, are nowhere near magical or wonderous, yet still they exist.  They often lie hidden in places that you wouldn’t expect; not necessarily in war torn nations or cities under siege, but in houses closer to home, where we suspect all is calm, but I can assure you that, for some, not all is bright.

Although you have never known me to meander in to the world of religion or politics without flippancy, even I feel duty bound to acknowledge places where belief and faith have been lost, be that religious faith, or secular belief.  There are such places, and they cannot contain enough magic to look after all the people within them.

My deepest thoughts are, as ever at this time, to those whose feeling towards this special season is marred by the loss of someone near, and the coming of the season does nothing to comfort, only to remind.  In this place or time, there is no hiding place.

And Paris? Surely if any place deserves to feel unmagical and devoid of wonder at this time it is the Gallic capital.    

Having heard me ramble on for more pages than seems fitting, this year’s blessay contains, believe it or not, three simple wishes:

Firstly, to those for whom Christmas is not special or wondrous, then to you may I pass on nought but my simplest human good wishes, devoid of any spiritual intention or agenda.  I hope simply and humbly that, as we reach the end of a calendar year, I may wish you well as you forge your path in this world for another twelvemonth.  The world is becoming a difficult place, and I hope we may become some sort of friends in seeking a solution to some of the troubles, no matter how small. 

Next, to those for whom it is a special and magical time and whose homes will become special places, to you I offer all the wonders and joys of the season.  I share with you the sheer magnificence of what this season can bring and mean.  The rumours around our school which suggest I dislike Christmas are utterly untrue, and completely inaccurate.  The truth is that I don’t like Christmas in November, or even earlier.  It robs the season of something of its splendour.  I, like you, am looking forward to each and every one of our little traditions that would mean nothing to anyone other than our family.  There are hundreds of little things – now that we are close – that I’m looking forward to enormously, and I hope that any magic or wonder visited on our house in the next few weeks is visited a thousand-fold upon your own.  A magic time, a special place, enjoy it all.

Finally, and this year most importantly, to the beautiful people of Paris.  How you have retained your dignity, humour and nobility at this time has been a lesson to us all.  Times and places of magic and wonder litter your every corner and square, every flagstone flanking your beautiful river – never let anything stop that, and never change.  Joyeux Noel to everyone concerned – in the face of one of the most hideous acts of unpleasantness imaginable, Paris showed the world what it is to care.  In the darkness of what will inevitably become war (sorry to drop a spoiler) Paris has been a light; in a world growing all too realistic and harsh, Paris has sprinkled some magic.  I’ve said in these blessays before, the world is suddenly becoming very scared of its own shadow; perhaps Paris’ light is one we should all walk towards – together. 

As ever, I hope my little festive rambling has caused no upset or outrage; certainly none was ever intended.  I hope it may have raised the ghost a smile, or a passing thought, even if that thought is “What is fatboy going on about now?” or “He’s really lost it this time”.  Whatever your thoughts, please take from this blessay my warmest and fondest Christmas wishes, and nothing but goodwill towards you all. It goes without saying, but I hope your Christmas is a time and place of magic and wonder…and more.

From the desk in the corridor, looking ahead to what portents to be a challenging and important 2016, that it all.

(Isn’t it) Great (to hold such high) Expectations?

I have spent a lot of time this term “monitoring”.  It’s a funny old phrase that gets used an enormous amount by people in education, and sometimes it doesn’t mean an enormous amount.  You could be monitoring footfall (something we have to do at the children’s centre which I don’t, if I’m totally honest, understand well enough to explain here) or monitoring the budget, which has often meant us checking how much we are in deficit.

Monitoring is often thought of as an exclusively leadership-orientated activity, with leaders monitoring whilst teachers and children are monitored.  If you go even further, the actual origin of the word monitor is the latin monere meaning “warn”.   Earliest English use is attributed to the Grammar school system and its appointment of monitors in the 16^th century, who were essentially thugs selected to impose and maintain discipline.  Dickens, bless him, is full of them. 

So it would be all too easy to follow this natural discourse and assume that what I have been doing a lot of this term has been largely punitive.  I have been skulking around, cane in hand, beady eyes aware to every minor infraction of polite and civil decency, ready at a moment’s notice to … No.  Of course not.

What I have been doing is setting myself various questions – hypotheses as my old science teacher Mr Turnbull tried to impress upon me for the entirety of year 7 -  and then using “monitoring”, a means of observing and collating information over time, to test these questions and ideas out.

I’ve set myself questions such as

-          How creative is our maths teaching?

-          If I were a child who struggled at school, how much support would I get?

-          How much do our brighter children get pushed?  How about all the other children?

-          What experience do our children enjoy in lessons that aren’t English and maths?

I have also had to ask myself, how many times to teacher training students say “Ssshhh!” in a single day?

What my monitoring has revealed repeatedly and to my utter pride and joy is that our phase teaching, our own brand of whole class teaching and learning that refuses bluntly to engage in teaching the whole class (I’ll explain over a pint), is delivering, on a daily basis, a broad and exciting, challenging curriculum in English and Maths. Furthermore, our teachers’ enormous creativity ensures that our children receive and enjoy a rich and varied diet of subject matter in the rest of their time at school. 

English teaching is bold and dynamic, from our ReadWriteInc lessons and the progress that brings with it, through key stage 2 children writing poems and haikus, publishing and recreating classic epic poems at length, using all the ICT they can muster.  I hear children debating whether employing alliteration at that point would be an interest to the reader, or “just a bit over the top”.  Above all, I see children writing with purpose, with confidence and, above all, with enthusiasm for what they are doing.  (I also learned an awful lot from those Year 6 leaflets about how to use an iphone.)

In maths, with the challenges brought about by the new curriculum, I have seen children rising to the occasion, ably supported by their innovative teachers and the ways they support them.  I never thought the words “Youtube” and “Long multiplication” went together very well, but I was wrong.  Furthermore, when I see children in the zone or in the corridor agonising over a task or an equation, I am always impressed by the resilience and the determination they display.  I write this having not long returned from a learning walk where I have seen shape work, symmetry, directions, extended addition, grid multiplication, roman numerals and converting measurements all being delivered in an exciting way.  Every child was engaged, every child was busy, and every child was – for that moment – a mathematician.

Yet monitoring, I feel, is at its best when it not only answers your questions, but poses some of its own. 

The main thing my monitoring has taught me this term is this: although the new curriculum is generally deemed to be “far more challenging” than any of its predecessors, what we are discovering is that, in the skilled hands of our learning craftsmen and women, this curriculum is about as exciting as it gets.  In the last three weeks I have seen children challenging themselves in English and maths in a way never before seen.  Beyond that, and possibly even more amazing, I have seen children studying amazing topics and subjects, learning fantastic new skills and discussing new concepts as diverse as Asian shadow puppets, Victorian childhoods and the skills of a good listener.  Just yesterday, on a learning walk in the afternoon I had the privilege of “monitoring” researching, inventing, building, designing, creating, playing, singing, performing, sketching, experimenting and, there was no denying it, enjoying. 

So the questions posed by monitoring are how lucky are we, as a group of educators and professionals, to be given a licence to challenge these amazing children in ways we never thought possible?  Are the expectations greater (as in larger, as in good old Dickens), or have they never been simply more, for want of a better word, great?

Until next months’ Christmas – blessay, that is all. 

PS On Timehop, which my wife has got me semi-addicted to, I was told yesterday that my blog of exactly this time a year ago was all about generosity.  I am delighted to say that this year’s November blog could’ve been of a similar ilk, with so many amazing things going on – harvest, remembrance, children in need, and, this year, compassion and sharing in the playground the like of which I have not seen at our school before.  One year 6 boy has nearly cracked my ribs on more than one occasion with his manhugs, and we have a new tradition, of which I hope we never tire, of starting each lunchtime with a group hug.  Yes, how lucky are we?